In twenty minutes, I’m putting the leashes on the dogs and taking them for a walk in what I hope is not the rain, so that some total stranger can wander through my house, considering whether they’d like to live in it. Such a weird feeling! Wistful and worried, anxious and yet, curiously relaxed. I love my house and it’s okay with me if these people do, too, and it’s okay with me if they don’t.
This is my first house, probably my last, although one never knows what the future will bring. (In my case, unless it brings me a partner who wants to do yard work, this is my last house.) My bucket list from over fifteen years ago — found while sorting stuff — included “live in a place that feels like home” and I do. One checkmark.
It will be so strange to leave it. And yet, adventure awaits. I need to figure out a way to record names of campgrounds, names of places to visit. I’m following all these fun RV blogs in my RSS feed now and it feels like there’s so much to see. I keep reminding myself that really what I plan to do is find a nice place to sit for a while, then sit and write, then find another nice place to sit. This adventure is supposed to include many, many words.
First, though, I need to finish Grace. I wonder if I can squeeze in another 100 words before time for my walk? I should try. Or maybe I should wander my house, eying the floors critically and seeing if there’s one more spot I can scrub, one more pile of Bartleby fur hiding in the corners.